


Oistros

by dragonofdispair



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (Except it’s not each other they hate), Aftercare, Asexual Character, Awkward Sexual Situations, Flashbacks, Hate Sex, Heats suck for all parties involved, Hey look! Mechs Using Their Words, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, PTSD, Past Non-Con, Ravage Lives!, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, being in a relationship does not automatically confer consent!, consent is important, dub-con, even if he’s never on screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 03:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14968607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Drift is in a platonic threesome with his conjunx Ratchet and his amica Rodimus, either of whom would be willing to help him through his heat. But Drift doesn’t want anything to do with them.





	Oistros

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Spite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193499) by [Whirlibirb (Draikinator)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Whirlibirb). 



> There are lots of heatfics out there, but [Spite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193499) by Draikinator, which somewhat indirectly inspired this story, is my favorite. Go read it, b/c I can’t do it as well as they did.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** heatfic (and all its inherent dub-con plus some), discussions of past traumatic non-con, present ptsd, flashbacks, and sex with someone other than an established partner.
> 
> Beta’d by Rizobact

Drift woke already humping his pillow. Since Drift never really humped anything, this was a little alarming and he stopped immediately, flinging the pillow out of his bed.

Or, he tried to. He flung it away and it hit Rodimus in the back instead. The captain started out of recharge as quickly as any of the War's survivors. Drift saw a pistol flick briefly into existence in Roddy's hand while he took stock of where he was, what had woken him, and ran a threat assessment.

It hadn't been too long ago that if any of them startled the other, one of them would end up on the floor. Of the three mechs who could be piled into the berth, Drift was the one who held the record for the number of times that threat assessment had led to him actually injuring his partners. Ratchet was next, but only because his heavier, and more heavily armored, frame soaked and dealt damage much more easily than either of the fast, less-armored speedsters. Rodimus struck out about as often as Ratchet, but unless he was overcharged enough to accidentally catch something on fire, he just didn't end up inflicting anything worse than small dents.

Unless there was shooting. All of them occasionally came up shooting.

They all had nasty ghosts in their pasts. 

This time, Drift waited, still and quiet as he could while Rodimus woke fully and realized the impact had been from a pillow, not the blast wave of a mortar shell. The gun disappeared and the red and yellow mech flopped back down onto the berth with an explosive sigh.

"What the hell, Drift?"

"Bad dream," Drift offered in explanation. It wasn't exactly a lie, though he didn't remember what dream had motivated him to hump the pillow. All his dreams of interfacing were bad. Even the ones where he overloaded.  _ Especially _ the ones where he overloaded.

Rodimus just grunted in acknowledgement. "You owe me breakfast."

Drift smiled. "Sure Roddy."

He squirmed free of the blankets, shimmying past Rodimus as he got off the berth and his systems sat up and took notice of the smooth,  _ sensuous _ glide of red and yellow armor against his own. His modesty panel tingled and the valve behind it clenched hungrily. Rodimus, beautiful, virile Rodimus would be  _ perfect… _

Primus, what the slag was wrong with him? Drift didn't think things like this, not ever, and especially not about his  _ amica! _

"Make sure it's warm!" Rodimus called sleepily, bringing Drift's thoughts back to the present. For a moment he stood there, his addled systems suggesting several things that could be "warm", each one more confusingly lewd than the last…

Breakfast! He was fetching breakfast for Roddy and he wanted the energon warmed up. "Alright."

Drift slotted the Great Sword on his back and scooted out the door before Rodimus could ask for it "spiced" or something equally innocuous-turned-innuendo.

Drift noticed mechs watching him while he stood in line at the ship's commissary, waiting for access to the communal energon dispensers. Why they were watching him, he didn't know, but it made his plating bristle. He didn't like them, didn't want them, and if they  _ touched him… _ He managed not to verbally, or physically for that matter, rip anyone's face off while he filled two mugs, heated them both, then added Rodimus' favorite mix of additives to one. 

The weirdness continued over breakfast with Rodimus. His interfacing systems continued to act up, telling him how nice Rodimus' frame was, how gorgeous his spike was, and how nice that spike would feel inside him… He didn't even  _ know _ what Rodimus' spike looked like! That wasn't something they did.

It wasn't something Drift did, period. Not with Rodimus. Not with Ratchet. Not with  _ anyone. _

Fortunately, his amica either didn't notice Drift acting weird or was (for once) being tactful enough not to point out how stilted, awkward and distracted he was being.

The energon tasted sour, despite being unflavored. As Rodimus finished his and stretched, Drift considered leaving the second half of his unfinished, but starvation gnawed at the edges of his memories and he quickly drained the last of it, despite the taste. That was really weird. Usually fuel had to be outright toxic for him to even consider leaving any behind, but analysis showed it was just pure, clean energon. 

That was concerning enough that, combined with the other things he was experiencing, he decided to go to medbay, instead of on duty. He pinged the ship's scheduling system and switched his shift with Hound's and logged himself as  _ at the medic _ while he tried not to squirm too much during Rodimus' usual "good bye, have a nice day" hug.

.

.

.

"You're in heat."

Drift blinked. "I thought if you didn't interface, you couldn't go into heat."

Ratchet's optics rolled up, then down, in a habit Drift knew had originally been a gesture of prayer — something like  _ Primus save me from idiots. _ Ratchet had probably picked it up from more devout friends or acquaintances long before he'd signed up on the  _ Lost Light, _ and Drift just hadn't bothered pointing out to him the origins of the gesture. He thought it was cute.

Right now he thought it was other things as well. It took effort to concentrate on the medical exam, rather than on Ratchet's strong, sure hands, the smooth blocky planes of his armor… Drift had always liked standard medical frames.

In retrospect, he really should have expected a heat was responsible for this weirdness. 

But he hadn't had sex with  _ anyone _ since leaving the Decepticons. He'd really thought not having sex meant his heat wouldn't happen. 

"Sexual activity that doesn't result in conception over a long period of time does cause an accelerated heat cycle," Ratchet clarified while he put away his exam tools. "Since the invention of contraceptive energy shunts, that's been the norm for most of our race, making the accelerated schedule the new normal for almost everyone."

Well that was useful to know, but didn't help him now. Sitting here,  _ imagining _ what it would be like to grab Ratchet, push him down onto one of the medical berths and ride his spike until this was over was… weird and off-putting, but not enough to trigger memories of bad experiences. Actually  _ doing it _ … Drift shuddered. No. He didn't want to subject either of them to the consequences of that. 

"Is it too late to get a shunt installed?" he asked instead, controlling his vent-cycles and cycling his optics through the spectra of a silent prayer for calmness. There was no way to interrupt a heat cycle, he knew, so he would have to deal with this. But since joining the Autobots he’d neglected keeping his shunt in repair. His last one might be fine, since he hadn’t done anything to potentially burn it out, but it also might have expired silently in the interim. If he couldn’t get a new one, he’d have to make sure his partner had one, since he  _ really _ didn’t want that sort of reminder hanging around inside his frame… 

A look of pity crossed Ratchet's face. "I'm afraid it is. But only one the mechs involved in a merge actually needs a shunt to prevent conception, even during a heat. I can assure you that Rodimus' and mine are both in peak condition."

After Drift shook away the image of what else about his conjunx and amica were probably in "peak" condition, he shook his head. "No thanks."

"You can't just meditate a heat away," Ratchet modulated his voice into a soothing, understanding tone. "You need to interface. Soon."

Interface… and sparkmerge. The first he could maybe fool his body with the right kind of toy (if he had one, which he didn’t), but the second… Drift's calm, even ventilations hitched with panic. Nightmares clawed at the edge of his thoughts, interrupting his prayer.

He wrestled his reactions back into some semblance of control. "I know," he answered Ratchet. "I'll deal with it."

Ratchet's expression twisted, optics unconsciously shifting color into an expression of jealousy Drift was the only one on the ship with the knowledge to read. The medic reigned in his reactions in a way that was remarkably similar to the way Drift was. It didn't stop the delicate tool in his hand from creaking with the strain of Ratchet's clenched fists. "May I ask why neither your conjunx nor your amica are suitable for this?" he asked with a mere semblance of calm.

How could he sum up a lifetime of nightmares for Ratchet? He knew Drift's life had been bad, that it'd put him off interfacing permanently. And this was going to dig all those horrific experiences out of his psyche and into the light of day. From the heats he'd endured as a prostitute living on the streets, begging to be everyone's plaything no matter how much it hurt, to being taken by Turmoil and left almost broken, when he wasn't just thrown to the troops to get it over with faster… 

"I don't want to bring those nightmares to our bed," Drift said plainly, willing Ratchet to understand. He wanted their berth to be  _ safe. _ It would break him to see Ratchet, or Rodimus' faces in those dreams. He would need them after.

Ratchet's optics cleared, the subtle color shift of jealousy going back to his normal on-duty calm. "I see. Make sure you talk to Rodimus before you bed someone else though. I don't want to deal with his whining."

"Thought that was what you two used the ball-gag for?"

Drift grinned while Ratchet sputtered.

.

.

.

"I'm in heat."

Drift rather relished how Megatron's optics widened and he almost dumped his drink on himself in startlement. There weren't a lot of mechs who could claim to have snuck up on the Slag-Maker, and most of them were either in Autobot Spec-Ops or dead. A lot of them were both. Drift was one of those few who could, not that he took advantage of it often, but private booths at 'Visages' were paranoia-inducing levels of private. Megatron hadn't seen him coming.

Or maybe it was his blunt statement that had Megatron jumping out of his chair, instead of his sudden appearance. Whatever. Drift didn't care.

All things considered, Megatron recovered well. "Shouldn't you be with the rest of your trine then?" he growled.

"No." Drift's answer was short, almost clipped. "They're both on-duty."

"Go wait in your quarters then." Megatron avoided meeting Drift's optics. It was an unprecedented amount of nervousness from a mech who was unnerved by nothing and no one. Drift almost told him that he didn't need to actually meet his gaze to see the emotion-influenced color beneath the red glass of his optics, but decided against. He had more important things to discuss right now.

"I'm not fragging them," he said instead. "If I had any choice in the matter, I wouldn't be fragging anyone."

Megatron's armored bristled. "I won't take an unwilling mech to my berth!"

Drift's patience was running out. It was getting harder and harder to think about anything except just how  _ big _ and  _ virile _ Megatron was. His pheromones were starting to attract attention too. The same conditions that had allowed Drift to sneak up on Megatron made seeing or hearing the mechs watching him and slowly drawing closer impossible, but he'd seen them before sliding into the booth. Now that he knew what was wrong, the attention made sense. Even the way mechs didn't seem to realize they were staring at him made sense. It didn't make Drift's plating crawl any less, and didn't make it any less inconvenient.

At the rate his symptoms were progressing, he wasn't going to be able to wait until Rodimus was off-duty to talk to him about this. He'd been hoping not to distract the captain.

Nothing for it. And if he couldn't wait for Rodimus’ shift to end, he wasn't going to wait for Megatron's hang-ups either.

"Won't bring an unwilling mech to your berth," Drift said ruthlessly, "but no problems instituting a policy of victimizing those who go into heat because they're a 'distraction' for everyone else."

Megatron flinched. "If that's your feeling on the subject, I cannot imagine why we're having this conversation. Is this revenge, then?"

Drift really wished it could be revenge. His processing threads were currently filled with wondering just how "proportional" Megatron's spike was to the rest of his frame. He just didn't have the bandwidth to think about revenge right now. Besides, Drift doubted he’d choose any different right now even if his heats while a Decepticon hadn’t been so very, very bad.

Instead his reasoning was a pure, ruthless logic even Prowl would have been proud of: "I'm going to hate someone when this is over. Of everyone on this ship, I think you’ll survive that relatively unscathed." 

Ratchet and Rodimus would survive it, but Drift wouldn’t. The others… well Drift knew how dangerous he was. Some of them could go toe-to-toe with Deadlock’s hatred and survive, but mechs like Cyclonus or Ultra Magnus wouldn’t understand  _ why _ the way Megatron would. 

Megatron flinched, but Drift saw that understanding in his optics now. Understanding and guilt and a whole host of emotions Drift just did not have time to cater to, and if Megatron didn’t shut up and agree right now Drift was going to lunge across this table and…

Something of that must have shown in his expression. “Fair enough,” Megatron said evenly, drawing slightly away, despite there being no place for such a large mech to go in the confines of the booth. “Forgive me if I insist we do this someplace other than my room. I’d rather not have your nightmares cluttering up my feng shui.”

“You mean you don’t want Ravage interrupting.”

A flat, red stare. “Isn’t that what I said?”

Whatever. Megatron’s relationship with Ravage was officially  _ complicated _ and Drift didn’t have patience left for it. All that was important was that Drift could understand not wanting that echo of trauma existing in the same place he recharged; it was the same as his own reasons, after all. “I’ll find us a room and ping you the location. Go have Ratchet check your shunt; I don’t want any accidents. He’ll make sure you’re taken off the duty rotation.”

Megatron looked insulted; Drift just glared — and pretended he wasn’t just imagining Megatron’s optics going dark and red in the instant before he overloaded — until he relented. “Fine. Shall I handcuff myself to the berth once I arrive as well?” he sneered. 

That set off a new cascade of images Drift had to sweep away before he could respond coherently. Finally, “Whatever fires your thrusters,” he rasped. “I know you’re not dumb enough to do anything stupid. After all,” Drift gave Megatron the most vacantly sweet expression he could conjure up, “only one of us is armed.”

He left a smear of lubricant behind on the seat as he slid out of the booth. How embarrassing. He’d need to divert to the washracks long enough to make himself presentable before tracking down Roddy, and time was running out.

Doing his best to appear unaffected, he sauntered toward the exit.

Still, “Touch me and I’ll rip your arm off,” he warned Smokescreen when the offending limb came too close to his plating. A warning was only fair; it wasn’t entirely the mech’s fault. Just because Drift was imagining what Smokescreen’s hand (and other things) would feel like, gliding through the thin sheen of lubricant on his thighs, didn’t mean he wanted the mech touching him for real.

Smokescreen squeaked and snatched his hand back with a nervous, but sincere  _ sorry! _ Drift nodded his acceptance and kept walking.

.

.

.

The washracks helped dump the accumulated charge from his wires, which was good, but left his plating feeling tingly and desperate, which wasn’t helpful at all. Two mechs had entered, unconsciously following the scent-trail of a mech in heat, then promptly turned around and left when Drift told them to get the frag lost.

Even though the freezing cold shower was of limited help, it did get the visible evidence of his condition off his plating. Time to go track down Rodimus.

The door to the washracks opened again and Drift turned to snarl at the mech entering, only to swallow the threat when he saw his amica there, framed by the hallway’s light. Convenient. “Close the door,” he croaked out instead.

Rodimus stepped forward, letting the door close behind him. “Wanna tell me what’s going on, Drift? I’ve gotten a bunch of reports saying you’re acting weird, and when I go down to medbay because your status is still set to ‘at the medic’, I find Ratchet in a snit and Megatron getting his energy shunt checked, and, oh Primus, why do I want to—”

Drift didn’t let him finish the sentence. “I’m in heat.” He was getting rather tired of the sentence, but it continued to have the rather amusing effect of making his conversational partners gape like landed sharkticons so yay consolation prize.

“That explains why everyone thinks you’re acting weird and why I want to jump you,” Rodimus pointed out, once he was finished gaping. His weight shifted up onto the balls of his feet, then deliberately back down. “Doesn’t explain Ratchet’s snit or why  _ Megatron’s _ getting his shunt checked.”

Drift didn’t want to hurt either of his partners. If he could do this with them, he would! With a growl he shook away the images of him and Rodimus and Ratchet all intertwined in the same berth in various stages of  _ fragging him. _ They didn’t go away entirely, but, meh… But he assumed (and hoped!) that it’d hurt all of them more if Drift couldn’t bare to look at them any longer when it was over.

“I don’t like this. I’m not going to enjoy it,” Drift started softly; Rodimus went quiet. He took a few steps closer and Drift couldn’t bring himself to snarl at him. Nevertheless, he was relieved when all he did was slide down the (wet, glistening) wall of the shower stall next to him, out of immediate reach. But in perfect range to be pounced! Drift slid down the wall as well, to sit where it would be less tempting to do any pouncing for real. Even if he wanted to pounce Roddy into next week. “I am going to be traumatized all over again. I hope you and Ratchet can forgive me for not wanting that to be you, for not wanting that in our berth.”

“And Megatron?” Roddy asked softly. 

“Will probably survive when I stab him a couple dozen times while we’re both recovering.”

Despite the situation, Rodimus laughed; it was a beautiful sound and it wasn’t  _ just _ the heat that made Drift want to kiss him for it. Kiss him and swallow each of those bright, genuine chuckles, then kiss his way down… okay yeah,  _ that _ was the heat. “Well no one can say you aren’t being honest in your intentions,” Roddy teased.

The easy affection made Drift  _ ache _ in ways that he didn’t  _ want _ to be caused by his heat.

“I was going to come talk to you about it,” he assured quickly. “I wasn’t just going to frag Megatron without a word. You’re my amica endura.”

“Okay.”

Drift shook away his frame’s current very vivid fantasy of just what he and Rodimus could do in this shower, certain it had caused him to mishear something. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Rodimus nodded. “Why so surprised? It’s your body. Me and Ratch’ll have our snits over not being your first choice, but it’s  _ your _ choice.”

“I love you.”

Rodimus swayed forward, then pulled back, bumping his head into the tile. “Ow. Don’t say things like that! It’s already hard — hehe — enough not to just grab you and frag right here.”

“Probably not as hard as it is for me to hold back from pouncing you,” Drift pointed out. Roddy tilted his head, thinking about that, before nodding in agreement. “So suck it up, buttercup.”

The captain’s expression did something very odd and complicated. “I am going to blame all these innuendos on the pheromones and tease you mercilessly about them tomorrow,” he declared

“So gracious.”

“I am. I am the  _ most _ gracious captain. I totally win the graciousness contest. I’m—”

“I want you there when I’m done,” Drift interrupted. If given a chance, Rodimus could go on like that for ten or twenty minutes, and Drift really needed to spend that time finishing up the serious things he needed to discuss before finding an unoccupied berthroom (cargo bay,  _ storage closet _ …) to go occupy. “You and Ratchet.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Drift had never been so sure of anything in his life. “I want you there.”

Rodimus gave him a crooked grin. “You got it. First Aid or Velocity can fix up Megsy’s stab wounds. And Ultra Magnus can deal with all the emergencies. Captain’s orders. We’ll be there.” Drift smiled, feeling warm and fuzzy inside.  _ Primus _ he loved this idiot… Rodimus’ grin twisted, turning vaguely embarrassed. “Your, uh, panel’s open.”

Drift’s litany of swear words would have put a dockworker’s vocabulary to shame.

.

.

.

The empty berthroom was brightly lit and orange and empty. The berth was comfortable, but not overly luxurious. The room was nothing like the nightmares that pressed themselves in on his processor, Turmoil’s dark and luxurious quarters, decorated with exaggerated proof of his many victories, the dingy motel room that oversized tank had taken him to for “privacy”, the berth already soaked in the smell of old, unwashed arousal and rust.

His frame wasn’t bothered by the nightmares. He rocked on the bunched up blanket, trying to stimulate the bared, slick valve. He couldn’t quite bring himself reach in there yet, but it was only a matter of time before—

Drift automatically responded to the ping by releasing the locks and opening the door. He no longer cared who it was as long as they  _ fragged him. _

The huge mech stepped through the door and let it close behind him. Drift heard the locks reengage and a part of him that still  _ did not want _ bared his teeth in threat. 

“You have a line outside your door,” the mech drawled.  _ “You’re distracting the troops,” _ Turmoil hissed.  _ “You know what that means, you little slut…” _

“Rodimus and Ratchet had to chase them away before I could risk opening the door,” Megatron continued, breaking Drift temporarily out of the spiral of memory. Drift gasped and shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to use the moment to hang onto the present. Rodimus and Ratchet were here, nearby,  _ guarding _ him. Megatron might be bigger than him, but  _ Drift _ was in control. Sort of. “Remind me to have First Aid or Velocity do my repairs… for the foreseeable future. Your conjunx is more likely to rip my spark out after this.”

Drift hissed a laugh. “I-isn’t my problem.”

“Oh. Good. You’re still coherent.” Megatron finally stepped further into the room, cautiously approaching the berth. “Now if you’ll just drop the sword…”

Drift managed to focus on his lead hand, the one not keeping the slick blanket still while he humped it, and realised he had one of his swords in it. In bed with naked steel. Wing would be disappointed. At least he’d left the Great Sword out of reach, under the berth.

Frag me. Frag me. Fragme. Fragmefragmefragme.  _ Frag me. _

But Megatron had stopped coming closer. Wasn’t touching. The small, somewhat coherent part of him acknowledged that he really couldn’t blame Megatron for his caution. With effort he stopped humping the blanket long enough to resheath the sword, engine giving out a high pitched, needy whine.

The large hand on his waist sent Drift back into the flashback. Turmoil holding him down, Turmoil… 

Gently pushing him to make room on the berth? The vision broke and again it was Megatron, sliding down next to him. Drift could feel the wash from the huge mech’s aroused frame, but he wasn’t bearing down on top of Drift, holding him down, thrusting in… Drift wiggled, rubbing his plating against the former-warlord’s, unsure what was going on. “Wha…?”

“I am not here for my pleasure,” Megatron rumbled. A single finger stroked down Drift’s side, making him gasp as sparks flew in the wake of the touch. “Do what you need.”

Need? His frame knew what he needed, but Drift wasn’t sure how to take it. He needed… “S-spike.”

Without hesitation, Megatron slid his own panel away and extended the spike beneath. 

Between the slickness clinging to his hands, his lack of control over his frame, and his fears, it took Drift several tries to climb on top of him. He trembled, engine whining, as he forced himself to go slow, lowering himself onto that probably-too-big spike. Any other time, Megatron would be big enough to tear him badly if he tried this without some sort of prep.

This time all the calipers relaxed readily, opening to accommodate the intruder. There was more than enough lubricant. The deep satiation of finally,  _ finally _ being filled suffused his frame even as his processor screamed  _ no! _

Megatron’s hands came to rest lightly on his waist as Drift fully seated himself on the massive spike. Drift stiffened, the calipers clenching, and Megatron moaned, unconsciously bucking up into Drift’s valve.

Panic clawed at him, closing in at the edge of his vision. The room flickered, the flashbacks gathering behind his optics. It was still too easy to imagine himself  _ under _ Megatron’s bulk, to imagine Megatron as any one of dozens of past abusers. Drift’s body didn’t care. That first, hesitant, thrust had been enough for the heat to take over completely.

But Drift was in control of the interface. Megatron thrust up, but couldn’t bring the full power of his frame to bear. It was Drift who set their desperate rhythm, clawing at the nightmare even as sparks arced between their frames. Megatron’s moans were too much like Turmoil’s…

“Talk to me!” he demanded, voice strong again now that he was actually doing what the code demanded.

“Drift. Drift.  _ Drift… _ Oh Primus you feel so goo—ACK” Drift clawed down Megatron’s chest, ripping at him as the words strengthened the nightmare.

“Not. That.”

_ “Then tell me what the frag you want!” _ Megatron almost-roared. Part of him cowered at the huge mech’s ire, but part of him was  _ satisfied _ to see the frustration creep into the aroused desperation of Megatron’s red optics.

“Tell me,” Drift paused to moan; as much as he hated the huge spike inside him, the heat made it feel  _ perfect. _ He was close to overloading, his first overload, already and his tanks roiled at the thought. Megatron’s moans were too much like Turmoil’s, but somewhere outside that door, Rodimus and Ratchet were waiting, guarding him, ready to come in and save him… “Tell me,” he said with sudden inspiration, thinking of nothing but how to hold the flashback at bay, “how many ways my amica and conjunx are going to—”

Overload ripped the rest of the words from his throat as an incoherent scream.

His vision cleared, sense — such as it was — returned. He was still mindlessly rutting on Megatron’s spike, but there was a new sound, a reassuring one. One that had never, could never have featured in any of his nightmares…

“… pose there’s any truth to that rumor about reformatting mechs who annoy him. You would know better than I, you’ve been an Autobot longer.” It wasn’t quite a fearful babble — Megatron wasn’t showing any sort of  _ fear _ — but it wasn’t demands or moans or dirty talk. “Your Ratchet certainly is more than fearless enough that I’d believe it…” 

Drift giggled, only a little hysterically. Oh yes.  _ His _ Ratchet was fearless. 

“…s very protective of you. He loves you very much. Any idiot can see it.”

“Roddy… fire.” Drift now rode Megatron’s spike with a purpose. The nightmares hissed at the edge of the room, there, present, but held at bay. 

“Oh, yes,” Megatron said between grunts. “How could I forget your amica’s ability to make my fuel lines explode with a touch? I honestly don’t know why I agreed to this.”

Drift didn’t bother answering that. He was close again, he was close and he wanted it  _ over with. _

Megatron was still talking when that overload faded, a comforting susurration of how formidable Drift and his protectors all were. Drift couldn’t quite hear it any longer. He scratched at Megatron’s chest seam. It was time to  _ finish _ this.

Maybe Megatron’s spark was beautiful, maybe it was ugly and scarred. Drift didn’t care, didn’t see; he brought their chests together to let them touch.

They kept the merge shallow. Neither of them really  _ wanted _ to bare their souls to the other. This was just an energy exchange. Sparklight reached out and intertwined, bringing surface thoughts — Drift’s  _ horror/determination _ and Megatron’s  _ caution/guilt _ — together with their physical desire, the energy buildup of their impending, mutual overload, winding it all together to create the seed of the newspark…

They both recoiled from that possibility and thankfully the shunt whisked it away to feed the energy back into Megatron’s systems at a later date.

They collapsed, venting hard.

Drift recovered first. With a screech, he bolted off Megatron’s spike,  _ away _ from the berth while the larger mech could only make a confused rumble while his systems finished rebooting.

“Out!” Drift snarled when he saw light come back on in Megatron’s optics. His swords were in his hands again, though he was trembling and wasn’t sure he could wield them properly, since he couldn’t pry himself up from his exhausted slump against the wall. If Megatron came any closer he’d  _ throw _ one of them at him. Already he was calculating just where he’d have to hit to bring the warlord down for good…

Megatron didn’t come closer. He sat up slowly, telegraphing every movement for the panicked swordsmech. “I’m leaving,” he assured. Drift only clutched his swords tighter as he stood.

Only the reluctance to toss away his weapon kept him from throwing the sword anyway.

Once he was gone and the doors were locked again, Drift crawled back toward the berth. He honestly wanted to burn it, not get closer to it, but he needed… he clutched the sheathed Great Sword to his chest as he scrambled back again. 

Aching and miserable, he curled up, setting his back to the soiled berth, and fell into an exhausted recharge.

.

.

.

“Shhh… want to wake up just a little, Drift? Just enough to…” Drift’s optics flickered on, looking up into Ratchet’s. “Good. Good. I’m going to touch you. Rodimus has the room next door ready for us.”

Ratchet was here. He was safe… He felt strong arms gently lift him from the ground. Drift was still clutching the Great Sword to his chest like a newling’s comfort toy, so he only had one arm free to wrap around Ratchet’s shoulder and hold on. 

“That’s it,” Ratchet soothed. “Come on.”

“Can walk,” Drift protested, even as he clung to the medic.

“I want to carry you.”

What could Drift say to that?

Ratchet had said they were going to the room next door, so he didn’t panic when the light changed, from the bright but private hue of personal quarters to the subtly public one. Instead he was relieved to leave most of the cloying, nasty scent of congealing lubricant, drying transfluid, and stale ozone behind.

They were only in the corridor for a minute, and then a new door opened, admitting them.

Suddenly Rodimus was there too. Drift met his amica’s worried gaze with his own, tired one. He was safe and it was over. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Rodimus reached out, then hesitated. Drift leaned into the space between them while Ratchet huffed, and Roddy closed the distance with a cocksure smile. “So how many pieces did you leave him in?”

Drift thought about that, thoughts feeling sluggish. “Just the one,” he finally said, which surprised him. He’d  _ expected _ he’d strike out, attack Megatron, as soon as the heat receded and he could. But then, he’d also expected to be pinned under the warlord’s bulk, struggling to free himself from the massive spike while the mech rebooted.

“You two can compare sword-lengths in a bit,” Ratchet interrupted, hitching Drift more securely into his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up and checked out.”

Neither of them moved until he said, “Yeah.” He wanted the mess  _ off _ his plating.

These berthrooms on the lower levels didn’t have any private washracks. Drift had thought that they’d be wetting him down with damp cloths. But they’d gone overboard and hauled a tub of some sort in here and filled it. Rodimus did wipe the worst of the mess from Drift’s plating — while Drift squirmed and insisted he could do it himself, but didn’t stop clinging to Ratchet to actually try to do so — then he was lowered into the  _ warm _ acetone to soak away the rest.

The heat seemed to wake him up and he sat up. Ratchet handed him a sponge and Drift started scrubbing out his valve. He knew he wasn’t going to get it all, much of it would have already been taken to his gestation tank in preparation to receive a newspark that wasn’t coming, but the less of that yuck was inside him, the better he’d feel. The acetone had turned grey by the time he was satisfied. He was sorely tempted to just keep scrubbing, try and scrub off the memory along with the mess and paint transfers, but he knew from experience that would only damage him. He squeezed out the sponge and let it fall outside the makeshift tub, then stood.

Ratchet was there with a towel, scooping him up out of the solvent, rubbing at the wet plating. 

There were… things he needed to say to his conjunx, and his amica, now that the heat wasn’t gnawing at his processor. Things he hadn’t said before, discussions they needed to have. 

“Ratchet—”

“Shhh. Later.” 

Later sounded good. Drift felt warm and safe and now he was clean and dry. Roddy was watching from over on the berth, guarding Drift’s swords. “Later,” he agreed. “Fuel, then recharge,  _ then _ we’ll deal with all the messy emotional scrap, ‘kay?”

More than okay.

On the berth, Rodimus helped him resettle his swords while Ratchet retrieved a cube from what Drift could now see was a small stash. He sat between them while he sipped; Ratchet helped, until Drift could hold the cube on his own.

They were being very careful, staying just a little bit apart from him. That was sweet, but not what Drift wanted. Pulling the cube of fuel close to his chest, he scooted over to Roddy and held out his hand to Ratchet. Two engines — one ambulance and one sportscar — rumbled in amusement and Drift finished his fuel while they arranged themselves around him. 

Drift drifted off into a contented recharge, tucked safely between his two not-lovers.

.

.

.

Ratchet's engine was very distinctive. Not the moody idle of a high performance speed demon, like his own or Rodimus'. Not strut-shaking vibration of a tank or jet engine. Not too hot, not too cold, Drift thought with a rather loopy giggle, it's juuuuuust right.

"Good morning, sleepy."

Ratchet's barely restrained sarcasm was even better. Since there was no point in pretending sleep with Ratchet — even if he hadn't given himself away with the giggle — Drift let his optics blink on. "Rodimus had to go to the bridge," Ratchet continued before Drift could ask, remembering he'd fallen asleep with both of them. "I think he locked us in here," the medic mused. "Something about us needing to talk."

Yeah.

Drift knew they needed to talk. There hadn't been time before his heat to say everything they'd needed to say to each other, but now that Ratchet was  _ here, _ Drift found himself strangely reluctant to begin. 

The silence stretched, awkward and solid enough that he could have cut it with one of his swords.

To Drift's surprise, Ratchet broke it first. "I'm jealous. There I said it, Rodimus will be insufferable, but…" He harumphed and shifted, and Drift thought that if they hadn't still been laying on the berth, wrapped up in each other, Ratchet might have crossed his arms defensively. "I admit it."

"Why?" He wasn't going to deny Ratchet's feelings — if nothing else he could feel them right there in his conjunx's field — but the idea baffled him. What was there to be jealous of?

"I guess I'm old fashioned," Ratchet continued, seeing Drift's confusion. "You know, that sentimental scrap about interfacing only with your partner or trine, and how sharing a heat is a magical experience… Rodimus set me straight, a bit," the medic assured, stroking down Drift's spinal struts, next to where the Great Sword usually sat. 

"Yeah…" Drift said slowly. "That really hasn't been my experience."

"I didn't think it was, but I didn't make the connection until Rodimus poked me until I admitted why I was fuming."

The thought that Rodimus had had an experience anywhere close enough to Drift's to explain it to Ratchet made his tank constrict like he was about to purge. Rodimus didn't deserve any of that…

"Shh…" Ratchet soothed. "It's not your fault. And jealous or no, I  _ do _ respect your decision."

"I'm not going to spend my next heat with you either," Drift felt compelled to warn, "or the one after that. Maybe," — probably — "never."

Ratchet pulled Drift tighter against him, field twisting with that same jealousy, but Drift felt him tamp it down with determination. "I respect that. Can you tell me why? In your words, not Rodimus'?"

Drift grimaced, burying his face in Ratchet's windshield, which prompted the medic to tighten his embrace slightly. He did not want to talk about this, to drag millions of years of trauma out into the light, but… "Sex is never about pleasure," he started after a few minutes. Ratchet deserved to hear it. "As a prostitute and a Decepticon, I used it to trade for what I needed. As an Autobot, as your conjunx, Rodimus' amica, it feels… I like not having to do that. I don't enjoy it, in any form." That much Ratchet already knew and had accepted. He'd known Drift wouldn't interface with him long before they'd undertaken the conjunx rites. "But heat…" Drift shuddered. "I'm not in control of that. It’s not a fair trade. I'm not  _ willing, _ and I often didn't have the luxury of choosing who got to have me."

In fact, this was the first time in Drift's memory he'd actually  _ chosen _ his partner. Maybe there was another time, lost to burned out fuses and circuit boosters. Maybe with Gasket… Drift shook the thought away. If that had ever happened, his lack of memory meant it wasn't relevant.

"You could have chosen us," Ratchet said softly.

"Every. Single. Heat. I've had has been absolutely awful," Drift said, squashing the spark of anger. It wasn't Ratchet's fault he didn't understand. "And this one was no different. My next won't be any different. If it's not awful because I'm being raped, it'll be awful because I'm  _ remembering _ being raped. I didn't want to have that awful experience with you." Drift snuggled tighter into Ratchet's arms. "I'd rather have this, the not-awful part, with you."

"Alright," Ratchet said, and Drift scoffed because he could still feel the undercurrent of jealousy in his conjunx's field. "It  _ is _ alright," he insisted. "Or it will be. I think it's going to take a while for me to fully integrate it."

Drift flickered amusement through his own field. "Good thing it'll be awhile before my next one."

"And Rodimus and I have each other."

"And that."

"Even if he needs a ball gag."

That made Drift laugh out loud.

It felt better, to have all of that emotional scrap out of the way. 

Though it seemed Ratchet wasn't quite done: "I want to ask you something, but I'm not sure how."

"What is it Ratchet?"

Ratchet hesitated, clearly reluctant. "Do you think this is something you could work on?"

Drift couldn't help but tense. "I'm not sure I know what you mean." It was that, or Ratchet was suggesting that Drift "get over" his problems.

He heard the back of Ratchet's head hit the wall and he looked up into the medic's optics. "I didn't mean it like that. I… I don't know what I mean. I mean… could you talk to Rung? Work on letting us help you? We could get the right kind of toy, practice shallow, swift merges… And maybe we can't next time, or the time after that… or maybe not ever. But if I'm going to work on not being jealous, then I'd like you to work on being  _ able _ to come to us, instead of resorting to someone you wouldn't mind stabbing to help you through your heats for the rest of your life."

Drift blinked, astonished. Astonished, and touched.

"Maybe it's never anything but horrible," Ratchet pressed on, perhaps mistaking his silence for hostility, "but there are degrees of horrible, and I'd like work towards a solution of least-harm for all of us."

"Alright," and Drift could tell his capitulation surprised Ratchet. "It's only fair, I guess."

"Well… yes," Ratchet stuttered, but then smiled. "Until then, what would you like to do until Rodimus is free again?"

It could have been an innuendo, but wasn't.

"Let's clean this place up and move back to one of our quarters," Drift suggested, unenthusiastic about getting up out of this berth — and out of Ratchet's arms — and going someplace else, but they'd all feel better in a real habsuite (with real washracks!) instead of this makeshift recovery area.

"Sounds good."

.

.

.

Drift deliberately scuffed a foot against the floor and Megatron's optics narrowed suspiciously as he turned to face the mech intruding on his solitude in the observation deck. Deadlock had been a multipurpose killer, and he never gave up an advantage over an opponent — or an opportunity to be a bastard and make a mech jump in surprise. If  _ Deadlock _ had deliberately made a noise, alerting someone to his presence, it had been a declaration of truce, but (to Megatron's point of view)  _ Drift _ gave up all sorts of combat advantages with his dedication to swordcraft over whatever weapon was at hand. So Drift could appreciate why the former warlord still looked wary. They had both changed so much in such a relatively short time and were still figuring out what to expect from each other.

And Megatron had every reason to think Drift would be violent now. He had promised he'd hate Megatron once his heat was over, after all.

Accordingly, Drift started with, "I'm not going to try and kill you."

"Internalized that Autobot rule about not committing mutiny already?" Megatron sneered back.

Drift felt his optics narrow. "It's not mutiny if you're not  _ my _ captain."  _ His _ captain would always be Rodimus. Rodimus was who Drift had given the ship to and… He took a deep draught of air into his ventilation system, then let it out slowly. "But that is not what I'm here for. I…" Drift wished he dared step closer, to offer his field for Megatron to feel and so he could pick up the larger mech's to read. "I promised I'd hate you after. Surprisingly, I find I don't."

Megatron just folded his arms defensively and glowered, and Drift sighed.

"It was awful. But there was nothing that could have made it not so." Drift crossed his arms too. He didn't like how it made him look like Deadlock, dripping insolence from his armor like a tangible thing, but it pulled his hands up, away from the swords on his hips; Megatron didn't know Drift still kept other weapons in his subspace, he didn't need to. "You did your best to make it the least awful it could have been to me, to your own detriment. Thank you."

He didn't go so far as to say he was in Megatron's debt. Forgiveness did not preclude  _ forgetting _ that this was the mech who'd given Turmoil leave to do what he had. Maybe next time — if there was one — there would be a debt, but not now.

Megatron grunted. He wasn't making this easy, but Drift could not begrudge him his defenses. 

"Hopefully you had someone. To go to. After?" Drift asked haltingly. In the desperation to find a partner, he had not cared what state Megatron would be in after, but this situation had been as unfair to him as it had been to Ratchet or Rodimus or Drift himself.

“I did.” 

Drift didn’t ask who it was. He could guess. Ravage, most likely, but there were a few others on this ship who might have been willing. “Good.”

.

.

.

end

**Author's Note:**

> ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴


End file.
